"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 1 - The Misenchanted Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

home, he had deceived his unwelcome visitor with play-pretties and phantasms.
That would explain why he hadn't wanted the blade drawn until he had had time
to disappear; use would surely show that there was no real enchantment.
That, Valder said to himself, would be just his luck. Overcome with
suspicion, he drew the sword.
It slid smoothly from the scabbard, the blade bright in the sun -- but no
brighter than might be expected. Valder saw no unnatural glow, no sparkling
silver, just the shine of well-kept steel. He held it out, made a few passes,
even got to his feet for a quick, if slightly clumsy, parry-riposte against an
imaginary foe; there was no sign of any magic. The blade looked and felt just
as it always had.
He lowered the sword and looked down at it in mild disappointment. He was
not really angry; after all, the old man had probably not trusted him and had
merely wanted to be rid of a serious nuisance. Quite possibly the old hermit
was not as great a wizard as he might pretend to be -- although he had
certainly done well enough with minor spells like the Sanguinary Deception or
the Finger of Flame.
A magical weapon would have been very nice to have, though, very
reassuring. It would not save him from starvation, but he would have liked it
all the same.
He briefly considered turning north again and trying to find the wizard,
but dismissed the thought. The hermit was gone and probably not worth tracking
down. And if Valder did manage to find him, what would he do with him? The old
man had his own problems, just as Valder did; there was no point in combining
the two sets.
The thought of turning north again did remind Valder that he was not yet
very far from the salt marsh, and that meant that he was not far from the sea.
Pine forests might not provide food, but the ocean would. Even if he found no
crabs, no clams, no oysters, even if he could catch no fish and hit no gulls,
he could always eat seaweed. Rather than north, he would head west and stick
to the coast henceforth. His route south would wiggle back and forth,
detouring around every bay and inlet, but he would not need to fear starvation
or becoming lost.
That decided, he tried to sheathe the sword.
The blade turned away from the mouth of the scabbard.
Thinking he had slipped, due to weariness, he tried again. Again, the tip
of the sword refused to enter the sheath, sliding to one side instead.
Still not actually thinking about it and with a trace of irritation,
Valder formed his left hand into a ring around the top of the scabbard to
guide the blade in and keep it from moving to either side. That worked, in
that the blade did not move away, but he still could not sheathe the sword;
instead of dodging, it now simply refused to slide home.
He pressed harder, building up until he had all the strength he could
muster, shoving sword and sheath together, but whatever was holding it refused
to yield.
His initial irritation gave way quickly to puzzlement; he took off his
belt and held the scabbard up so that he could study it closely, inside and
out. He saw nothing amiss, nothing in any way out of the ordinary, and felt a
small tingle of excitement in his gut. The wizard had not lied!
He sat down again and very slowly, very carefully brought the sword and